


A Proper Celebration

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Aviator Manners, Book 1: His Majesty's Dragon, Gen, Pre-Epilogue, Someone Help Laurence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-17 22:06:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11277723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: The aviators are invited to a formal party following the battle of Dover. Laurence is given the unenviable task of preparing everyone.





	A Proper Celebration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WolftheForsaken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolftheForsaken/gifts).



> This is post-Battle of Dover, but before the gathering in Book 1's epilogue.

If Laurence has any say, no one will ever know the exertion put toward the effort of getting Dover's aviators presentable for Lord Winsdale's goodwill celebration.

“Do the men wear corsets too, Sir,” asks Cadet Dyers dubiously.

Laurence breathes in sharply, then closes his eyes. “...No. No, they do not.”

“But I've seen some men in Dover - “

“We will have a discussion,” Laurence says, “About the parts of Dover you have been frequenting,” which fortunately forestalls that line of questioning.

Emily's rather loud battle with her garments evoked this round of queries; she tugs at her bodice, red-faced and scowling, while Laurence pointedly ignores her.

When Admiral Lenton had taken him aside, asking him very carefully if he might not try to get his crew – and a few specific captains and senior officers who might also warrant invitations – familiar with the standards of good society in time for the round of banquets and celebrations sure to follow their momentous victory at Dover, Laurence had thought very little before agreeing. After all, he will only need to assist the officers, and among them the only lower-ranked officers who merit invitations are those from Temeraire's own crew, since unfortunately the Celestial's exciting ability and his defeat of Napoleon's flying ships has not yet had the requisite month or two to fade into obscurity.

Note: in the navy most officers are gentleman.

It did not _sound_ like a challenging task.

“I think I lost a fork,” says Cadet Samson sadly.

“We only have the room reserved for another half-hour,” says Laurence rather desperately. “ - Cadet Roland, lace is expensive, please do not - “

“It restricts my movements, Sir!”

“You do not need to move, you need to sit.”

“If I sit my dress flies up,” Emily mutters. “I thought it was bad _etiquette_ for people to see my underthings?”

“That's what the lords like to say,” says Dyers wisely. “But you know they actually don't mind so much. I saw this older lady in Dover who kept pretending to drop things, and then when she'd bend down- “

Laurence decides that he will have to ban Dyers from taking further liberty in the town. Good lord.

“Sir, are you entirely sure this fork and spoon stuff is, is real?” asks one of Berkley's cadets for the third time. He waves a particularly dainty fork, still wearing his gloves. “And this thing is for _oysters?_ Only I've never seen anyone around here - “

“I assure you it is very real, Cadet.”

“I don't suppose Captain Harcourt knows about it then.”

“Or Captain Little.”

“Or Captain Chenery.”

Emily tugs mutinously at her dress. “I bet my mum gets to wear pants,” she mutters.

And that's about the point where Laurence realizes that things can, in fact, get worse.

* * *

 

“I think I lost a fork,” says Captain Chenery.

“Perhaps we should move on to the dancing,” Laurence sighs.

Chairs move away from the table in a chorus of squeals.

They push the empty furniture toward the walls and leave a clear space in the center of the hall. Granby shoots Laurence a commiserating look, but of course Temeraire's First Lieutenant, for all his support, is no real help; as the third son of a coal-merchant he has exactly as many social graces as any other aviator, which is to say, fewer than the average Englishman. Laurence has no idea what most cadets are taught, but the Corps seems to have developed a hybrid culture all their own.

“At least we know this part,” comments Captain Warren. “I rather like dancing; and we should get Matthew here drunk, he'll start trying to waltz with the chairs.”

“I haven't done that in years,” Berkley protests.

“No first names,” Laurence chides.

“We can just take turns dancing with Roland and Harcourt,” Sutton suggests. “At the actual event, I mean.”

“If you keep me away from the other louts I would be delighted,” agrees the latter.

“You cannot dance with someone more than once,” Laurence reasserts control, vaguely horrified.

“Oh, good,” sighs Captain Warren. “ - We'll just have to avoid dancing at all, then?”

“...You will have to dance, or be thought rude.” Laurence tries to keep the pain from his voice. Granby eyes him with a little alarm. “And you cannot monopolize Jane – _Roland,_ or Captain Harcourt...”

“I don't see why not,” says Captain Roland.

“But can we dance with each other instead?” Warren asks.

“That would be much nicer,” says Chenery. “Like that big circle thing we did at last New Years. Will we dance in a circle at this party, do you think?”

Granby keeps a steady eye on Laurence. “I doubt it,” the lieutenant says dryly, just as Laurence gives up and leans back against the wall. He tugs his neckcloth in a vain attempt to get more air. Granby pauses. “Unless, Laurence, do you suppose that if we played some music for the dragons - “

“We will not monopolize Roland or Harcourt,” says Laurence firmly. “Who, if you recall, are not supposed to be associated with us at all. Men will not dance together. The _dragons_ are not dancing.”

“This event sounds rather dull,” Chenery says.

Laurence is tired enough to tell him, a bit too honestly, “It is supposed to be dull.”

Everyone nods as though this makes sense.

“Perhaps we should try to practice dancing itself.”

The practice is a disaster. Laurence informs the room twice that _practicing_ with other men is fine, for the moment, they do not have enough women anyway - “although Captain Little, you do need to try leading once,” he despairs, eventually taking note of him and Granby. Which is when he sees that Captain Harcourt has been pushing Warren is circles around the room for twenty minutes; her form is so good he might never have noticed, and Warren is certainly enjoying himself.

Laurence would not presume to question fellow captains, but as several pairs sweep the room – clumsily – he takes an opportunity, also, to probe a few midwingmen. “Mr. Shetland,” he demands, startling one of Sutton's young officers. “How would you address a widowed lady if she wanted to dance with you?”

“Address?” he asks, momentarily confused.

“What would you call her, Mr. Shetland.”

“Oh, I - her name?” Shetland looks baffled. Seeing Laurence's face, he tries, “Ma'am? _Ma'am,_ Sir.”

What he concludes: he might have to go over titles and addresses again.

* * *

 

When the aviators arrive Captains Roland and Harcourt, so accustomed to their positions of seniority as formation leaders, precede the group into Lord Winsdale's hall with a dignified flourish of their dresses. Harcourt manages to walk without stumbling – a near-miracle itself – but beyond the door their host and hostess eye the party aghast, as if to say, _wherever are your manners?_ and the tone is set from there.

“Captain Laurence,” Winsdale greets, plainly relieved, when he enters. A few captains linger, and a few others seem to forget entirely his warnings about greeting the host because they scatter straight into the room and gawk rather obviously at the opulent decorations. The lord shakes his head and leans in with a bit too much familiarity. “Very good to see you, very good – how is your father?”

“Well, thank you.” Laurence catches a glimpse of Mr. Martin over his host's shoulder. The midwingman peers up at a painting and tilts the frame with interest. He hastens to add, “We are all honored by your thoughtfulness in arranging this event, my Lord - “

“Not at all! The least I can do for His Majesty's proud soldiers, eh?” Mr. Martin has now dropped the painting. Captain Sutton wanders over to pick it up and starts snickering at something; he's already smoking a cigar.

“...Yes,” says Laurence belatedly. When Winsdale frowns at him, he adds, “We were all glad to do our part; I am sure Bonaparte will think twice before making such an attempt again.”

That, at least, is a sentiment anyone can support. “Quite so! Quite so, Captain, in fact - “ and to Laurence's horror he calls for a servant to bring two flutes of wine. Laurence runs a hand over his face when his host isn't looking, then manages to accept the glass with a tight smile.

More people, non-aviators, are filing into the hall. Lieutenant Hodgely stops a woman to gesticulate wildly at a vase; Laurence watches in slow horror as it falls and splinters against the floor.

Winsdale doesn't seem to notice.

“One moment!” The lord cries, tapping his glass. The hall hushes slowly. “I would like to propose a toast to all our brave aviators who risk their lives everyday, dealing with savage beasts for the good of this great country. To the Corps!”

A faint echo rises. Laurence hastily lifts his own glass. The aviators in the hall seem plainly unimpressed.

“Very nice,” he hears one of the lieutenants mutter nearby. “But I would quite prefer something a bit more stiff if we're stuck entertaining this lot. Can't we toast with something decent...?”

“Ha,” another officer answers. “They don't think we're _worth_ it, of course.”

Winsdale _does_ hear that comment, judging by the way his mouth tightens.

Another party arrives, and the awkward lord uses the excuse to make his departure. Sensing a similar opportunity in this distraction, the cadets scatter for the side-doors - with the notable exception of poor Emily Roland in her tangle of skirts. Laurence strongly suspects they have run outside to do some mischief, hopefully away from the other guests. Sutton and his first lieutenant pair up to glance warily at some women, muttering. Laurence assumes they are trying to figure out how to approach, but they only manage to look menacing.

Lieutenant Hobbes, apparently under the impression that the appetizer table is the main course, gathers up an absurd collection of forks and spoons before eating his tiny finger sandwiches, and Laurence glimpses a delighted man from the Foreign Office being led around the floor in odd patterns by Captain Roland with complete disregard to the present lack of music.

Lenton appears by his side. His formal admiral's dress-uniform gleams very appropriately in the hall's gathered lights.

“I'd say this is going well,” he decrees, sipping at some wine. “Blessed that it isn't a formal dinner, mind; last time we had a large group invited to one of those. Captain Everett, from my old formation, he fell asleep in his pudding and Lieutenant Lesley tore up her skirts trying to fetch some cloths. Not to mention how some of the midwingmen start to gossip when they get in their cups - “

Laurence reminds himself that his company will probably not reflect poorly on Lord Allendale; most people already consider him rather estranged from the _respectable_ Laurences.

His mood cheers slightly when he sees Harcourt charming a few men in the corner, and after some maneuvering Lenton gathers the younger officers around him like a flock of hatchlings all looking for food. They trail along and speak obediently to anyone he gestures toward. Well, perhaps the evening will not be an _entire_ disaster...

“Er, Sir? Sir?”

Laurence pauses at the interruption. He turns slowly, and manages to ask with something approaching calm, “Is there a problem, Mr. Martin?”

“Well, no,” Martin lies. “Except that some of us decided to look at the stables? And possibly one of the horses escaped, Sir. You know, he was very big. Almost as big as a Winchester! I didn't know horses could get that - “

Laurence presses a hand to his face. “I will outside shortly,” he manages. And then, noticing a new commotion, adds: “...Pray go relieve Captain Sutton from the tables before he drinks anymore wine.”

Martin looks over critically. “Might be easier to just give him _more_ wine – he just sleeps it off,” he suggests, and leaves Laurence to his misery.

* * *

 

 

“Well,” Granby says, after. “That could have gone... worse.”

Laurence levels him with a flat look and unravels his cravat. “Pray tell me how.”

Granby winces. Considers. “...No one was arrested,” he suggests.

Laurence does not dignify this with a response.

He sags against Temeraire, slipping off his coat without care for the impropriety. Neither John nor the Celestial mind, and there is no need to be careful _here._ Unlike at the party, where no one but Laurence seemed very concerned about their behavior anyway.

“It's not so bad,” Granby coaxes. “We promised to pay them back for the horses...”

“You should have let me along after all, Laurence,” Temeraire reproaches. “See, _I_ would not have lost any horses. And if that one had still died I could have eaten it, instead of letting it be wasted...”

“My dear,” Laurence says, “I would gladly go anywhere with you, but I would prefer we only have happy experiences together.”

“I have heard it was a rather boring party,” Temeraire allows, which is not quite what he meant. “Oh, look; it is Lily and Harcourt.”

Laurence turns around as the huge Longwing squeezes herself into Temeraire's clearing. She stands tensed on half-bowed legs, ready to take new flight at any moment. “'Ello, Laurence, John.” Harcourt is still wearing her dress, sitting awkwardly on her side. “We decided it was a bit of a waste to put these fancy clothes away so soon – and anyway the dragons like them, don't you, love.”

“You look very nice,” Lily approves, glancing back with one large yellow eye. “I think all your outfits should sparkle so.”

“Quite right! We're flying out to that big clearing a few miles off the town – where the men played ball two months back, remember? I think the lads convinced Berkley to do some singing.”

“I didn't know Berkley could sing,” says Granby with surprise.

“He can't!” Harcourt grins.

“Oh, let us go,” Temeraire says. “I think I would quite like a party with our friends."

So, of course, Laurence has to go.

This party is quite different. The dragons ring the clearing in happy clumps, chatting quietly and tilting their heads as bits of lute and a rustic violin are drawn from the more artistic aviators. Laurence belatedly remembers his mussed uniform and missing cravat, but half the crowd is worse dressed than he. The remnants from Lord Winsdale's gathering are dressing in only bits and pieces of finery. Emily has torn her dress past the knees with complete disregard for its finery. But no one seems to notice.

And while Temeraire bows his head to peer at a few drunken men sprawled on the ground, Jane Roland comes and finds him. “For all your talk of dancing,” she says, “I never saw _you_ on the floor, Will.” And this seems to be an invitation, because without anything further she grabs his arm.

Laurence finds himself being led in a bizarre, fast-paced circle that utterly dismisses the music. And to his own surprise he finds himself smiling, too, as well-meaning onlookers start to jeer.

Perhaps it _isn't_ such a bad thing to ignore etiquette.

* * *

 

* * *

 

“Well,” says Admiral Lenton much later, philosophical. “At least it is unlikely we will have to endure any more invitations.”

(The officers _and their dragons_ are invited to a party that very next day. Laurence, quite appropriately, confiscates some whiskey from his subordinates and starts preparing new lessons).

 


End file.
